


Small Gods

by xylodemon



Category: American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-04
Updated: 2006-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 14:49:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of these ordinary gods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Gods

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://draggystack.livejournal.com/profile)[**draggystack**](http://draggystack.livejournal.com/) and [](http://slashfest.livejournal.com/profile)[**slashfest**](http://slashfest.livejournal.com/) 2005, Round II.

**5:37 AM**

It was almost morning. Almost, but not quite.

An inconsiderate chill lingered in the way of an unwanted houseguest. Ibis blinked at the near darkness as a dream of long, salty summers and sand that shimmered like water slipped through his fingers. Behind the ancient curtains in the window, the dark, early morning sky blanched quietly to steel gray.

Ibis fumbled along the window for the light switch -- the push-button type that was prone to giving a shock to the unsuspecting. The faceplate was papered in the same tan and ecru that covered the walls, but the pinstripes on one did not line up with those on the other. This had bothered Ibis for close to sixty years, but in that time the wallpaper had never peeled, and Jacquel said they should return the favor by leaving well enough alone.

The ceiling lamp came on slowly, as if it had to think about it. Outside, the birds began to stir with small, halfhearted chirps that reminded Ibis of rusty, wind-up toys. Growling, Jacquel rolled, pulled the blanket over his head, and buried his face in the pillow.

**6:18 AM**

Ibis took his coffee black, although he didn't particularly prefer it that way. If asked, he'd say he preferred it with three spoonfuls of sugar and a healthy dose of cream, but it was easier to drink it black. Sugar brought ants, and gods woke up to milk that had gone off as often as other people.

**7:53 AM**

Two poached eggs waited patiently for Ibis on top of a piece of dry, multigrain toast.

"The coroner will be calling when he gets in at eight," Ibis said. He wore his brown suit, which differed from his black, navy blue, and gray suits only in color. He'd purchased them all on the same day from a tailor in Mound City in the late 1940s.

"Oh?" Jacquel sounded neither surprised or impressed. He was still in his pajamas. "What's on the docket today?"

Jacquel smiled at his own joke. In lean years, Ibis moonlighted at the courthouse in downtown Cairo. He filled out forms and filed pleadings, or as Jacquel called it, pushed paper. The job came easily to him; it was mildly interesting and it suited his fastidious nature. It also paid the bills when the mortuary did not.

"There was a stabbing behind the Cavalier Club," Ibis replied. He frowned at his eggs and pushed the plate away. He had little patience for the types of cases that flooded his desk recently. He'd seen his fair share of drunken fights and domestic violence this week, and it was only Wednesday.

"Wonderful," Jacquel muttered. He unscrewed the lid from a jar marked Joan Grabhorn and tipped a slice of heart onto a plate. "I'll have a fat drunk on my slab before noon."

"Two fat drunks," Ibis corrected. He sipped his coffee, and turned to page two of _The Southern Illinoisan_.

"Even better," Jacquel grumbled. "What did they argue over? A leggy blonde, or pool bet?"

"A short redhead and a game of darts," Ibis replied.

**8:48 AM**

Ibis scanned the advertisements on the back page of _The Southern Illinoisan_. Pumpkins were on sale, which was unsurprising for this time of year. Another blurb in the left-hand corner promised eggnog for the unlikely price of one dollar a gallon.

Bast jumped into Ibis' lap and rested her front paws on the table. She sniffed warily at his forgotten eggs, then began to lap at them with her pink, sandpaper tongue.

"Stop it," he said irritably. "That will only upset your stomach."

Bast meowed at him balefully, and Ibis glanced across the room. The plastic dish next to the cat basket was empty. A handful of tan and brown crumbs speckled the bottom. They seemed lost and lonely.

"I suppose I should feed you," Ibis commented. He began to fold the paper, and froze.

Heavenly Gates Funeral Home was just a few blocks away on Sycamore Street, and a neat, quarter-page advertisement announced it was offering prearranged funeral packages at a discounted rate through the holiday season.

Part of him wondered about people who would give a loved one a burial plan as a Christmas gift. The other part knew this meant they'd have to lower prices, at least until after the new year.

**9:21 AM**

Ibis' office was small and uncluttered. A bookshelf towered against the back wall, and on either side of it, dusty curtains guarded the bay windows as well as ancient linen knew how. He folded his hands on top of his desk, amidst a red, leather-bound ledger, a fountain pen in a tarnished silver holder, and a box of Kleenex covered in pink and blue flowers.

Michelle Holguin was a short, stocky woman in her late thirties. She had a nine year old son named Kevin whose leukemia had recently taken a turn for the worse.

"Four thousand, six hundred and ninety-two dollars," Ibis quoted. Michelle Holguin didn't even blink. Ibis knew she'd seen medical bills with far more digits in the last three years. "That includes the casket and embalming, an hour-long viewing, a funeral service in our chapel, and burial."

Michelle Holguin nodded silently. She had the tired, weary look of someone who'd battled a family member's illness from the bedside, and gray streaked her mousy hair at the temples.

"That does not include a cemetery plot," Ibis continued. "Have you looked into a plot, yet?"

"No," Michelle said. "I haven't... I didn't--" She paused, averting her eyes, and Ibis pushed the box of Kleenex toward her without a word. "The doctor had been so sure he'd live," she finished helplessly.

Ibis murmured in agreement. He wondered if the doctor had really believed that, or if he'd been trying to do Michelle a kindness.

"Green Lawn Memorial Gardens is over on Sycamore Street, if you are interested in something local," he said, pulling a business card from the top drawer of his desk. "It's a lovely place, and most plots are available for about twelve hundred dollars."

He offered her the business card. It was white with charcoal lettering, and named an Ed Mathers as the owner, who was available by his office telephone from nine to five, Monday through Thursday. Michelle hesitated, her hand hovering just shy of the card, and Ibis waited. Once she touched it, she'd be admitting defeat, and Ibis knew she needed to do that on her own.

Michelle's purse began to sing the 1812 Overture. She snatched it off the floor, fished a small, black Nokia from its depths, and after glancing at the display, quickly thumbed a key.

"Hello?" she asked. Her voice was thin, apprehensive. Ibis didn't have to ask to know the caller was from the hospital.

He pushed his chair back quietly and stood. She should finish her call in private. He left the business card on the desk, next to the box of Kleenex.

**10:07 AM**

Jacquel's workshop smelled of beer and bile. A large man in torn jeans and a blood-spattered flannel waited silently on the examination table. He had square features, and the kind of beard often worn by members of motorcycle gangs. His front teeth, which appeared to be fake, bore the yellow discoloration of heavy tobacco use.

"Fat drunk number one?" Ibis asked.

"What gave him away?" Jacquel muttered. He paused over the man for a moment, then began unbuttoning his flannel. The material was stiff, and underneath it was an equally blood-spattered wifebeater which struggled to contain both the man's girth and an unnecessary amount of chest hair.

"The police report is here, if you need it," Ibis said. He set a legal-size manilla folder on the stainless steel cart that held Jacquel's autopsy tools.

"I don't need it," Jacquel said, as he wrestled Fat Drunk's arm out of his sleeve. "I know exactly what happened."

"Oh?" Ibis asked. "Do tell."

"Our friend Hoss played a game of darts with Cooter, and won," Jacquel said. He pulled Fat Drunk's flannel free of his body and dropped it into a laundry basket under the examination table. "When Cooter refused to pay up, Hoss decided to square the debt with a handful of Cooter's girlfriend's ass." He pursed his lips at Fat Drunk's wifebeater, and with a sigh, attacked it with a pair of scissors. "Words were exchanged, as well as punches, and sharp objects."

"You looked at the report already," Ibis said. Other than the names, which were actually Joe and William, Jacquel was just about right.

"Nope," Jacquel said. He shook his head, frowning at Fat Drunk's belt buckle. "I didn't need to. This is a one horse town, and these people have no imagination."

**11:58 AM**

Ibis set a block of sharp cheddar and a squeeze bottle of mustard on the counter, next to a loaf of white bread and a package of sliced turkey. He wasn't particularly hungry, but it was lunchtime.

He studied the items in front of him for a moment, and debated driving up to Nonny's. If he did, he'd order turkey, same as he was about to make, but Nonny's had Swiss cheese, which he preferred but didn't have, and sandwiches always tasted better when they were made by someone else.

Shaking his head, he reached for a plate from the dish rack. The van was in the shop again, and Ibis disliked using the hearse for errands. The dead, it seemed, made people nervous.

If only they knew.

There was a loud bang from downstairs, the discordant clang of metal striking metal, and Ibis sighed. Fat Drunk Number Two had stiffened in an awkward position, and Jacquel was having a very difficult time getting him sliced.

Ibis wondered idly if he should offer Jacquel a sandwich. Jacquel would say no -- he always did -- but Ibis firmly believed that it never hurt to ask.

Another bang sounded from the basement; a heavier noise, more solid. Ibis hoped the corpse hadn't fallen off the examination table. Jacquel hated it when they got away from him.

"Ibis?" Jacquel's words were muffled by the floor, but Ibis could hear the irritation in his voice. "Can you bring me a fucking beer?"

**12:35 PM**

The counter bit sharply into the small of Ibis' back, and Jacquel was getting blood on his suit.

"Wait," Ibis said.

"For what?" Jacquel asked. He spoke the words against Ibis' neck. "For the coroner to bring me another cold one to crack open? For you to leave for your other job?" His fingers deftly worked the knot on Ibis' tie. He pulled, and it slipped free of Ibis' collar with a soft, sibilant hiss. "For Horus to come home?"

Ibis found himself speechless, and when Jacquel kissed him, he allowed it.

There was a time when they loved each other. Three thousand years ago. Maybe four. It had been a strange, almost awkward love, borne of living and working together rather that true passion or desire, but it had been love, nonetheless.

It was different, now. Things had changed, times had changed, forgetting them as it ticked by. Jacquel drowned his sorrows, licking his wounded pride with a beer-soaked tongue. Ibis ignored his own, burying them under his work.

Jacquel pressed into Ibis, his cock hard against Ibis' hip. The package of turkey fell off the counter, hitting the floor with a dull, dead noise.

He remembered the first time they did this, when Cairo was nothing more than a flat, barren plain scored by a cheap imitation of the Nile. He'd marveled at the way the sun had glinted off Jacquel's smooth, brown skin, at the desperate, needy noises Jacquel had forced from his throat.

Ibis was hard when Jacquel's hand wormed its way inside his pants, and Jacquel smiled against his neck.

"You still want to wait?" Jacquel asked.

Ibis heard plastic crinkle. He looked down and found Bast nosing at the turkey. She hadn't been human since Shadow left, and they hadn't seen Horus in over two months.

"No." Ibis caught his breath, and snagged his hand in Jacquel's hair.

**1:20 PM**

The Bakelite telephone in the hallway jingled with a noise like an ice cream truck gone wrong.

Ibis pushed his chair back and stood, but Jacquel was already there.

"Hello?" Jacquel asked. He sounded rough.

Ibis paused at this, and peered curiously into the hallway. Jacquel never answered the telephone. He hated the telephone. The only person he ever spoke with on the telephone was the coroner, and he would only do so if the coroner refused to let Ibis put him off.

"Yes," Jacquel said. His voice suddenly changed, seemed less harsh. "Of course. I'll stop by this evening. Thank you." The receiver landed in the cradle with a sharp click.

"Who was that?"

"The grocery store over on Elm," Jacquel said.

"A pick up?" Ibis asked. He frowned, and wished the van was working. A public pick up in the hearse would cause a scene.

"No," Jacquel replied. "They offered me a job."

"A job?"

"I should help out more," Jacquel said simply. He stepped back into the kitchen, and Ibis followed. "You're putting in too many hours at the drunk tank."

"I only work four nights a week," Ibis argued. "And short shifts."

Jacquel pulled a beer from the fridge. He studied Ibis as he opened it. "It's too much," Jacquel said. "You're not as young as you used to be."

"We were never as young as we used to be," Ibis returned. This was a terrible idea. Jacquel was a very solitary creature, and quite frankly, he hated the living. "What kind of job?"

"Meat department," Jacquel said. He sipped his beer. Foam hid itself in the corner of his mouth, and he rooted it out with the tip of his tongue. "Butcher."

"You're overqualified," Ibis said sensibly.

"Of course I am," Jacquel agreed. "But they don't know that, do they?"

**2:18 PM**

Maureen Lovitt died at seventy-eight. Her surviving family included one sister, several children, even more grandchildren, and a great-granddaughter named Abigail whom, Ibis was told repeatedly, had Maureen's eyes.

Yesterday, Ibis dressed Maureen in the dress she was married in. It was airy chiffon the color and texture of powdered sugar, and tiny white pearls lined the neck. Fifty years and six children had given Maureen's body a different size and shape, but Ibis did the best he could.

Her mahogany and gold-leaf casket was lined in silk the same salmon pink Ibis had painted her nails. Her sons chatted quietly in the corner in the nervous, awkward way men were prone to do in emotional situations, and her daughters brushed tears from their eyes with shaking hands.

Maureen's oldest daughter, Linda, handed Ibis a blue Tupperware of potato casserole and a foil-covered salad bowl of Jell-O ambrosia. Ibis smiled and thanked her kindly. After she left, he placed it in the fridge next to the jar containing Maureen's liver. He wondered if Jacquel had eaten yet.

**3:15 PM**

"Thank you for calling _The Southern Illinoisan_. This is Mark. How may I direct your call?"

"Good afternoon, Mark. I'm interested in taking out an advertisement in tomorrow's paper."

**4:43 PM**

Jacquel loomed in the kitchen doorway.

"How did it go?" Ibis asked.

Jacquel shrugged and pushed himself away from the door jamb. "It went." The fridge door opened with a pained howl. "I start tomorrow night."

"Night?" Ibis repeated. He sighed at his game of solitaire. He'd lost this hand ten minutes ago, but he couldn't make himself stop playing.

"Graveyard shift," Jacquel said. A hint of a smiled skated past his lips.

Ibis said nothing. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and returned to his cards. Jacquel watched him for a moment, then pulled a second beer from the fridge and set it on the table in a way that suggested he expected Ibis to drink it. Ibis obliged.

"It's only two days a week," Jacquel continued. He sipped his beer and drummed his fingers on the ace of spades. "I didn't like it when you first took the job at the clink."

"You find my job amusing," Ibis argued. "You joke about it incessantly."

"I joke about it _now_ ," Jacquel replied. The drumming trailed off, and he toyed with the corner of the card. "Not in the beginning. I didn't like it."

"Why not?" Ibis asked.

Jacquel shrugged. "I just didn't," he said. Irritation tarnished the edge of his voice. He set his beer aside and started gathering up Ibis' solitaire game.

"I wasn't done," Ibis remarked.

"Yes, you were," Jacquel said. "You're going to play gin with me."

"I suppose I am," Ibis replied, sipping his beer. It was cool against his tongue, and less bitter than the last batch.

**5:03 PM**

_Joe Douglas Jameson was born in 1968._

Ibis' ancient fountain pen made a harsh, scratchy sound as he wrote. The paper inside his red, leather-bound ledger was off-white with gold lines, and the ink in the pen was more sepia than black.

_He was the only child of Douglas Jameson and Louisa Hamilton. His parents met in 1967 at a demolition derby just outside of Cairo. They dated briefly, and married when Louisa became pregnant. Louisa filed for divorce when Joe was not quite three, and the judge found Douglas' drinking and inability to hold a job as sufficient grounds._

The sun headed quietly for the horizon. Its decent painted Ibis' room in oranges and reds, and Ibis felt warm in spite of the slight autumn breeze. His coffee was too strong. It was also just a hair above tepid. He poured it into the potted plant on his desk and set the mug aside.

_Joe transferred to Cairo High School in the middle of his ninth grade year, after a disagreement with a classmate turned into a series of schoolyard fights._

He paused, his fountain pen poised above the page. A drop of ink fell from the tip. It landed on the page with a soft plop and spread into a shape that vaguely resembled a sheep.

Ibis recorded the lives of men. He chronicled their achievements and their failures, their milestones and embarrassments. Sometimes, the good outweighed the bad, and sometimes, it did not. And sometimes, there really wasn't much distinction between the two.

**6:28 PM**

"Have you eaten?"

Jacquel looked up from his work. Papers were strewn across both his desk and the floor, and a pile of folders waited for him on a lawn chair next to the door.

"I've had a long life," Jacquel replied, without looking up. "I'm sure I've managed to eat at one point or another."

"Today," Ibis said patiently. "Have you eaten _today_."

"No."

He waved Ibis off and returned to his paperwork. Ibis ignored this rather abrupt dismissal and took a seat in front of Jacquel's desk. He brought with him a small salad in a chipped, china bowl. Ibis purchased the bowl twenty years ago when he happened upon a museum hosting an Egyptian exhibit. The hieroglyphs painted on the bowl were crude and inaccurate, and the salad had ranch dressing and extra cheese.

"The coroner is an idiot," Jacquel said, to no one in particular. He made a rather violent notation at the bottom of the form in front of him.

"I know," Ibis agreed. After a brief study of his salad, he realized he hadn't brought a fork. He rescued a crouton from the river of ranch and popped it into his mouth.

**7:18 PM**

Joe Douglas Jameson had a half-sister named Mary Lou, and she was on the phone.

She understood that Ibis & Jacquel was probably closed since it was so late, but she wondered if Mr. Ibis would be willing to talk to her for a minute -- she promised not to take too much of his time.

She always knew her brother would come to a bad end. He drank too much and he liked to fight, and he hung around with what Mary Lou considered a bad crowd. She'd been worried about him -- they hadn't spoken much since she moved to Phoenix with her boyfriend last Christmas

Mr. Ibis probably didn't want to talk business right now, since it was past closing, but she wondered if Ibis & Jacquel would be willing to do for Joe's funeral. It would be easier that way, since Joe was already at their mortuary, and she didn't want to try and find someone else, what with her living out of town and all.

Ibis agreed. He took down her full name and telephone number, and he offered her their new holiday rate.

**8:21 PM**

Jacquel dozed on the couch in the front hallway. This morning's paper was divided messily between his lap and the floor, and his face was buried in the crook of his arm.

Ibis pulled a blanket out of the upstairs hallway closet. It was blue and white with a soft satin lining, and Ibis laid it across Jacquel's legs before heading up to his office.

**9:56 PM**

_Joe Douglas Jameson was born in 1968._

Ibis fancied himself a writer, and he'd once thought he could be a published author.

_He was the only child of Douglas Jameson and Louisa Hamilton. His parents met in 1967 at a demolition derby just outside of Cairo. They dated briefly, and married when Louisa became pregnant. Louisa filed for divorce when Joe was not quite three, and the judge found Douglas' drinking and inability to hold a job as sufficient grounds._

On June 23, 1978, Ibis submitted one of his manuscripts to a small publishing firm in Springfield. A week later, he learned the difference between himself the men and women who penned bestsellers. Ibis wrote the truth where published authors did not, and the truth did not sell, unless it was stranger than fiction.

_Joe transferred to Cairo High School in the middle of his ninth grade year, after a disagreement with a classmate turned into a series of schoolyard fights._

The door creaked open. Ibis set down his pen.

"You coming to bed?" Jacquel asked. His voice was thick with sleep.

Sometimes, the lives of ordinary men were the greatest stories never told. Sometimes, but not always. Sometimes, there just wasn't much to tell.

"Yes," Ibis replied. "I'll be right up."


End file.
